Vermont Meditation (tentative title)

Beneath a notched sycamore
the grass catches scars of autumn
falling as notched pages, torn from a book,
would fall – (aptly) swaying like pendulums
ticking away the days until December.

The pages traipse towards the water’s edge –  
towards the lake, the cobblestoned rut,
and crowd against the limestone breccia
like scrawled marginalia too cramped and blurred to read.

Empty spaces, lattice-like against the sky,
left by the pages peeled away,
are gaps among the leaves –
now, and now –
like missed beats in a symphony,
gaps on a staff –
a brazen emptiness,

now, and now –
the notes unfurl,
rests crescendo
into the penultimate silence
still falling, still to fall –

the unheard played beneath the heard.

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